Not Without You

by Clare James

  She moves toward me, and I hold by breath. She looks… edible. She must’ve showered at the studio, changing from her little tights to the most body-hugging dress in her closet. A deep blue that makes her eyes pop.

  Damn. This was on purpose. She’s not giving up.

  She practically slinks over to me with that damn dancer’s body.

  “You need to shower,” she scolds, running her fingers through my hair.

  It’s really hot when she scolds. Really. Hot.

  “Hurry up, and I’ll take care of the rest.” She leans in for a quick peck on my cheek and then tries to get a way.

  I catch her arm. “Not so fast.” I pull her to me and take a bite of her neck. “You look amazing.”

  “And you look dirty,” she says in a way that doesn’t feel like an insult.

  “That’s because I am,” I say. She understands exactly what I mean.

  “Good thing,” she says. “Because I am too.”

  “No.” I rain kisses up and down her neck. “You’re perfect.”

  “You say that.” Tab takes a breath and closes her eyes. “And I know you mean it, but I’m not perfect. Far from it.”

  “Perfect for me,” I tell her.

  “Prove it,” she says.

  So I pick her up and take her to the bedroom.

  Yes, I’m the king of mixed messages, and it’s making me sick.

  Chapter 8

  “All who are hungry come and eat,” I announce, opening our door. It’s the traditional start to the Seder.

  Tab sits at the far end of the table from me and winks. Jules and Foster are on one side, Michael and Jenna on the other. Nobody’s had a thing to drink yet since everyone will have four glasses of wine during the meal. So it’s painfully uncomfortable.

  Foster tries stealing a matzah and Jules slaps his hand.

  “He just said all who are hungry can get their eat on,” Foster says.

  “Maybe you should’ve eaten like a normal person today,” Jules snaps.

  “I’m saving up for the brisket.”

  We all just watch them bicker.

  “You’re an idiot,” Jules concludes. “Sorry, Noah. Carry on.”

  Tabby pours the glasses of wine and I say the blessing.

  “So, thanks, everyone, for being here tonight and celebrating Passover with us. We’re doing this very low key, so ask questions whenever you want. And don’t worry. You don’t have to eat everything. But most importantly, let me tell you about the wine. We’ll have four glasses of wine throughout the meal to symbolize the four expressions of God’s redemption of the Israelites.”

  “And you drink it reclining,” Tabby chimes in. I love that she knows this.

  “What do you mean by ‘reclining’?” Michael asks.

  “You lean to the left as another expression of freedom,” I say.

  “And we get to do this four times?” Jules asks, all excited.

  “Watch it or I’ll switch you to my grape juice,” Foster says. “But seriously, I’m your sober cab too if you need it, Michael.”

  “I might just take you up on that,” Michael says, looking absolutely thrilled that there’s alcohol involved.

  We drink our wine, and I read from the Haggadah. And when everyone is finished, I call out, “Urchat!”

  “That means we wash our hands,” Tabby says, holding the water pitcher and bowl and helping to pass it around to our guests.

  We don’t do everything perfectly, more like winging it. But I do give Jules a stern look when she “accidently” flings her fingers at Jenna, getting her face wet.

  “Oops.”

  It’s the only apology we get from Jules.

  Michael wipes it off Jenna’s nose with his napkin, and though I know what a pain in the ass Jenna can be, I’m glad she found someone like Michael.

  Tab doesn’t look so impressed.

  The next step in the meal is to dip a boiled potato in salt water. Everyone follows the directions to the letter. Tabby and Michael exchange looks. I know that this is fun for them. Holidays in Illinois were pretty brutal—stuffy and boring.

  We move through the ceremony, Michael and Jules asking questions along the way. Foster breaks the matzah and is his typical dramatic self. And then comes more wine.

  After some bitter herbs and a few more blessings, it’s time for the brisket. Foster is up and out of his chair before I even ask.

  During the third cup of wine, Michael is in charge of the blessing. When he’s done, we all fill Elijah’s cup, which is sitting empty in the middle of the table. Good thing for the table cloth because people are spilling all over the place.

  Jenna giggles, and everyone turns and stares.

  There might be something to this breaking bread business. The mood is lighter with each little sip.

  By the fourth cup, everyone is giggling.

  Jenna locks in on Michael every time he speaks. I’ve only seen her act this way one other time. And that’s when I was on the receiving end of her attentions.

  Tabby continues to eye her up like a cat.

  If this weren’t an interactive dinner, we would’ve been screwed.

  ***

  I go to the kitchen to get the dessert, and Foster just can’t help himself as he follows closely behind. It’s not long before Jenna joins us.

  “Thanks for inviting us tonight, Noah,” she says with real sincerity. “It really means so much to Michael.”

  I feel bad that Tabby never has got a chance to know Jenna in this way. But she has a good soul in there. Sometimes, it just needs to be pried it out with a crow bar.

  “And what about to you?” I ask.

  “It means a lot to me too.”

  When I raise an eyebrow, she bursts out laughing.

  “I have to admit I was worried that Tabby or Jules would put something in my food. But so far so good.”

  “You haven’t had the dessert yet,” Foster says.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her, and I’m actually telling the truth. “I hope it’s not too bad for you.”

  “Hey, despite the awkward silence and death glares from the ladies, it’s been nice.”

  Michael’s laugh echoes throughout the room, and Jenna friggin’ lights up. I know the feeling.

  “You really like him, huh?” Foster asks in a rare moment of interest.

  Jenna’s made life difficult for Foster as well and almost cost him his relationship with Jules. But it wasn’t a one-sided deal. He’s had his own share of blame to take.

  “I love him,” Jenna admits freely. “Which is why I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” I ask, my reporter Spidey sense tingling.

  “The Richardson Family,” she starts, and my fists clench instantly. Thomas Richardson is the asshole who drugged Tabby, and his family bought their way out of it. “You know, the Richardsons?” She looks at me pointedly.

  “Of course. What about the degenerates?”

  “Well, they are setting up shop in Minneapolis, and from what I understand, Thomas is going to be running the Minneapolis office.”

  “What? How do you know this? Michael?” The questions shoot out of my mouth like rapid fire.

  “No, he doesn’t know, and God, don’t tell him,” Jenna says. “That family almost destroyed Michael too.”

  She’s right about that. Michael fought for Tabby so hard when everything happened. He was forced to change schools as well.

  “Michael’s dad doesn’t work in the same field anymore, so they’re out of the loop. I found out about it by chance—from the real estate office.”

  “Fuck,” I say, trying to keep my voice down.

  “They’re just looking at spaces,” she says. “So who knows?”

  “You need to tell them,” Foster says. “Trust me, secrets will always come out and bite you in the ass.”

  “But why worry them now if it isn’t a done deal?” I ask.

  “Because you wouldn’t want them keeping it from you,” Foster say
s.

  I am really starting to hate the new reasonable version of my friend.

  “Right now is a terrible time to say something to Tab.” I try to justify my reasoning. “Especially if it turns out to be nothing. Or maybe we could help the assholes along in their decision-making process.

  “Like how?” Jenna’s ears perk up.

  “I don’t know. Maybe if a certain reporter could dig up something on their company or pretended to dig something up, we could talk them into going home.”

  “And maybe that idiot would end up in jail for breaking the law,” Foster says. “What the fuck are you thinking, Adler?”

  “Or maybe the building already has a buyer.” Jenna plays his game.

  “You two are nuts.”

  “Hey,” I tell him. “We’re just spit-balling here. They might even appreciate the effort.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, man.”

  “Just let us think on this,” I say to Foster. “But you have to promise us you aren’t going to say something to Jules.”

  “Fine.” He grits his teeth. “I was never here. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

  Sage advice. If only I could listen.

  Chapter 9

  I spend the next week trying to dig up any dirt I can on the Richardson Organization. There has to be a way to keep them out of Minneapolis and away from Tabby.

  So far my research hasn’t amounted to much. It’s been one big goose egg.

  Jenna offered to make some calls from her real estate office, but we hadn’t exhausted all resources yet, so I had her hold off. Though I’m considering doing something soon to make the problem go away because Foster’s been acting like he’s been put into a pressure cooker and he’s ready to blow. I’m worried he might cave and tell Jules.

  When I get home, our place is quiet and empty; Tabby is still out.

  Perfect.

  So I continue my sleuthing until I hear her keys jingle. Quick to close down the suspicious sites on my laptop as she opens the door, I smile when she walks in.

  My heart still speeds up every time I hear her open the door. I still can’t believe she’s living with me. A gush of bitter air blows in. What started as the perfect spring has turned gray and cold.

  I put my laptop down and turn around. Tab peeks her head around the door. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, with her pink cheeks and gray beanie, her blond hair falling around her shoulders.

  I wait for her face to sour. For the last month, this place has been nothing but tension and frustration so damn tangible you can feel it. Thick and heavy. It’s made me so claustrophobic, I can only imagine how Tab feels. But instead of grimacing or looking away, she smiles. Soft and so achingly sweet. I stand up and move to pull my glasses off.

  “Don’t take them off,” she says, walking toward me. “I love you in these nerdy things.” She wiggles them on my face.

  The tension in the room thins, dissipates. It’s that easy. That’s the kind of power she has over me.

  She slides out of her coat, revealing one of the tiny dresses she wears to rehearsal. The top is like a second skin, covering her chest and stomach before flowing out into the lightest skirt that stops at the tops of her thighs. Her legs are covered in footless tights. She’s every part the tiny dancer, so graceful. So pure.

  She wouldn’t like that assessment, but that’s how she looks to me—like a damn angel.

  I pull her beanie off and her hair stands up in every direction from the static electricity. I smooth it down, and she grabs my wrists and wraps them around her neck. Her hands tuck around my waist, under my shirt, and she rests her head on my chest.

  “Dance with me?” she pleads—as if I’d ever deny her.

  “Always,” I say before giving us a beat. I hum a slow melody, not even sure what it is, really. Probably a combination of a hundred different songs.

  I let my hands drop down the length of her back. My fingers trace over the straps, going every which way—impossibly crisscrossing over her shoulder blades, all the way down to the fabric of the skirt. She leans closer, and we sway, our bodies molding together so amazingly tight.

  My arm is now secure around her waist, the other almost spans the entire space on the middle of her back.

  Our centers fuse together, and she rocks her hips against me in the most delicate way, bringing everything below the belt to life. Tab releases a long breath—hot, moist air on my chest that puts my entire body on alert. She smells like spring and sweat and the honey from her shampoo. It fogs my brain.

  I shift one leg around hers so the other is left between her legs—the perfect place to apply a hint of pressure where I know she needs it most.

  We stay that way, enfolding our bodies, moving against one another. Holding each other up. There’s nobody but us. We were made for this right here, this moment, and I know without a doubt that it will forever be burned in my brain.

  Every nerve ending is buzzing under my skin, alive because of her touch. Her goodness. I’m better with Tabby. I’m good this way, and everything makes sense. I breathe her in and hold it inside, not wanting to let any piece of her go. I savor each second.

  She looks up at me, her eyes hooded now. She doesn’t say a word. This isn’t the woman who was in my bed last night. She isn’t the woman I fucked at the dance studio or got off in Foster’s bathroom. This is my Tabby. She makes no requests or demands. This time, she stays in the moment with me. Her heart echoes my beat, and suddenly, I need more from her. It’s like a chemical reaction, and I’m unable to stop what’s been ignited between us.

  I pull the strap of Tabby’s dress down over her right shoulder, kissing every inch of her burning skin along the open path. She shudders and tips her head, giving me more room to explore. I happily take it, edging her dress lower, lower, and lower. Until it’s no longer a barrier between us.

  Clad in only her little tights, she pulls off my shirt and presses her chest against mine. Skin on skin. The sensation makes my eyes roll back in my head. She runs her fingers down my back, before dipping them under the waistband of my pants.

  I’m putty in her hands.

  Her touch, her smell, her warmth has me losing my fucking mind. I’m hard as hell and can’t make sense of anything other than what her body tells me.

  There’s no way I won’t comply to its commands.

  I ease Tabby back on the couch and lose my footing in the process, falling down with her. She laughs, but it’s not the same girlish giggle from the other night. No. This is throaty and all woman. There is no act. It’s just us.

  Pushing myself up and off, I stare down at her as she protests the loss of contact. Still, I need to see her.

  Her breasts are the first to beckon me. Her nipples are so tight and hard I can’t not touch them. Taste them. Gripping both at the same time, I roll them between my fingers in the way that drives her crazy. Pulling. Tugging. Pinching. She calls out.

  She is so responsive. So present and needy with her high-pitched whimpers and that hot-as-fuck roll of her hips.

  “I love you, Noah,” she whispers. “I’ve missed this. Missed you.”

  It’s all I need to hear.

  “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” I say, never allowing my hands to stop touching her. “I’ve missed having you here with me. All the way.”

  “I’m here,” she says.

  “I love you, baby,” I say. All thoughts of slow and sweet are replaced with hard and fast as I crave dominating her. This time, I don’t chastise myself for it. I just take.

  “More,” she cries.

  So I take one peaked nipple into my mouth and give it a quick nip.

  How could this be wrong?

  She wriggles under me, and I want her still—pliant as I claim her. I’m high on the control.

  After trapping her hands under her ass, I don’t let up. Her nipples are a bright pink from all the attention, ripe for the taking. She pushes them up as an offering.

  I continu
e to take.

  But with another grind of her hips, I’m reminded of what I’m neglecting.

  The air is heady with her musky scent, and I begin kissing a trail downward.

  Until something on my desk grabs my attention and I get an idea.

  “Stay,” I tell her as I slide off the bed.

  She doesn’t move an inch.

  I come back with what I need, unable to wait a second longer.

  The scissors are cool as I run the metal tip under the top of her tights.

  She gasps but doesn’t say a word.

  “Don’t move,” I tell her and take a small snip of the fabric, resting below her belly button.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, but her voice isn’t laced with panic. It’s laced with lust.

  “You don’t need to know,” I tell her, understanding exactly what she needs. For me to take control. For me to do elicit things to her. For me to punish her is some odd way that makes her feel alive. That gives her pleasure.

  Still, I will tread lightly. No matter how bad she wants it.

  “Are you okay with this?” I ask.

  Silence.

  She’s playing the game, so I make it easy for her. And me. Just to be sure.

  “If you don’t want this, you speak up. You tell me.”

  Her head makes a brief, almost undetectable nod. But I see it.

  I set the scissors on the bedside table.

  The small cut gives me the opportunity to rip the tights down the center. Slowly, gingerly, I rip the thin fabric to expose her to me—inch by glorious inch.

  “So beautiful,” I tell her as I open her legs with a gentle touch so I can get a better look. She is so still and vulnerable. Yet her body tells me she wants this so badly—her dilated eyes, shallow breaths, and sizzling skin.

  She opens her legs farther, impatient as I take her in. She’s so wet that she’s glistening. Her moans tell me that the pressure is too much. She’s suffering now, so I work to ease her discomfort with a long lick down her center. The damp tights hang by threads on her thighs.

  I would love to spend all night here, but I can’t wait another moment. I push my pants down around my ankles, taking my boxers with them and freeing my aching erection. Then I pull Tab’s knees up to her chest, capture her in my gaze, and edge in toward her entrance.